The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,65

was bronzer.

At least she agreed with Drea. I was a summer. This was supposedly the most subtle of all the cosmetic color palettes, and yet Gia had applied no less than four shades of eye shadow, three coats of mascara, two layers of foundation and one very, very purple lip color she swore up and down was “plum.” How did any girl smile under the weight of so much subtlety? When she was finished, the three of us stood in front of the mirror and marveled at what Gia was already calling her “five-minute miracle.”

Gia, Drea, and I looked like …

Family.

“Don’t forget! You need to get yourselves to the food court no later than eleven thirty, do you hear me? Eleven thirty!”

Then she kissed us both and left, passing an incoming customer on the way out. I waited for Drea to say something complimentary about my new look.

“Make yourself look busy,” she said coldly.

I sighed. There was no way Drea could maintain this level of irritation for long. I was certain she’d come to her senses before the fashion show and laugh the whole thing off as a particularly powerful bout of premenstrual bitchiness or hypoglycemic hysteria, both conditions quickly cured by a complimentary Orange Julius. I’d tell her about Sam and my devirginization and we’d be back to being BFFs.

I was wrong.

39

FEROCIOUS AND FIRED

For the next hour, I stayed out of Drea’s way and did a solid job of making myself look busy. I took the same half dozen halter tops on and off their hangers and successfully managed to avoid making contact with any of the customers. Drea was preoccupied with a plastic wife of a plastic surgeon who was shopping for a full calendar of benefits and charity balls.

“Can this neckline go any lower?” she asked, presumably to show off her husband’s pneumatic handiwork.

“You ask, we alter,” Drea cooed. “Your look will be as chic and unique as you are!”

I assumed she’d totally forgotten that I was technically supposed to be helping her on the sales floor. As it turned out, Drea was just waiting for the right opportunity to test my nascent customer service skills.

“Aha!”

Drea excused herself from the face-lifted philanthropist and pulled me away from the halter tops.

“Here she comes! The White Whale is back!”

Mona Troccola.

By that point, I was very familiar with Mona Troccola’s American Express account number. She lived in Toms River, a few zip and income tax codes over from Pineville. Toms River boasted its own country club with tennis courts, an Olympic-sized pool, and a golf course. Only nine holes you had to play twice, but still. Fancy. Mona also owned a thirty-two-foot motorboat that she often referred to as her “starter yacht” in a way that was supposed to sound like she was joking when in fact she was deadly serious. Divorced for two years, she was one year and eleven months behind on locking down husband number two. Decades at the club and on the open water had left Mona’s skin the color and consistency of beef jerky.

“You take Mona,” Drea said. “Earn your final paycheck.”

There it was again. That tone. If I were more confrontational, more like Drea herself, I might have called her out right then and there.

“Just tell her every third look is slimming and she’ll buy it.”

Mona paused at the entrance to take a last, long drag on her cigarette. Regulars knew Gia didn’t allow smoking in the store out of respect for the delicate fabrics and luxurious materials Bellarosa Boutique was famous for.

“Every third look?”

“You can’t tell her everything she tries on is slimming because she won’t believe it,” Drea said. “Only recommending certain looks—and not the most expensive ones—builds up a sense of trust. She thinks I’m the only one who tells the truth.”

“You’re not telling the truth?”

What a dumb question. Of course Drea wasn’t telling the truth to a woman who looked like the Crypt Keeper in everything she tried on. Mona flicked her butt into the ashtray. Without missing a single beat, Drea went in for the nicotine-tinged air-kiss.

“Mona! Darling! MWAH!”

“Drea! Darling! MWAH! Who is this gorgeous new girl you got working for you now?”

I was the only person standing there, and yet it still took us both a moment to realize whom Mona was referring to. In the silence, an orchestral cover of Lionel Ritchie’s “All Night Long” ended, followed by a jazzy take on Stevie Wonder’s “Part-Time Lover.” Bellarosa Boutique’s soundtrack was familiar and comforting by design. And yet